


The Loneliest Place to Be

by strange_seas



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, Slice of Life, Writer!AU, friendswithbenefits!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 03:56:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17134493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strange_seas/pseuds/strange_seas
Summary: On a business trip to promote his new book, Kyungsoo discovers that no-strings-attached is no longer a possibility.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LiveJournal on October 6, 2016. Title excerpted from a Lang Leav poem: “Sometimes the loneliest place to be is in love.”

The woman at reception smiles with her entire face. “Welcome to Manila.” She’s pretty, and her English is perfect. “I hope you enjoy your stay with us, sir. Please don’t hesitate to dial the front desk if you need anything.”  
  
Kyungsoo takes the sleeve of keycards she holds out to him, dipping his head out of habit. “Thank you very much,” he replies, tongue thick over unfamiliar vowels and consonants. “Good night.”  
  
This is the fanciest hotel Joonmyun has ever booked him into. High ceilings drip with crystal overhead, and marble whispers beneath Kyungsoo’s feet as a personal butler leads him to the elevators. He never thought it could be like this—certainly not when he was starting out. That he, Do Kyungsoo, jobbing writer-turned-Internet poet, would be touring Asia on the backs of his words.  
  
Good thing his editor had taken a chance on the Tumblr generation.  
  
The butler is pressed into a sleek black suit and has the professional bearing of a grown man. But his hair is trendy—an Instagrammable coif—and that’s what gives his age away. Twenty-three, maybe twenty-four at most. Right in Kyungsoo’s readership.  
  
“Excuse me, sir,” the young man says as the elevator rises to the twentieth floor, where the executive suites are. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m a big fan.”  
  
“Oh, wow.” Kyungsoo forgets, once again, not to bow. “Have you gotten a chance to read the new book?”  
  
“ _Certain Secret Things._ ” The butler nods. His nametag reads Paolo. “I’m halfway through it and loving it so far. The title, too.”  
  
“Thank you.” Kyungsoo’s expression turns sheepish. He’s not great with compliments. “I hope the other half doesn’t disappoint.”  
  
The butler shakes his head, congenial to a fault. “Not at all, sir. You’re very good. My girlfriend thinks so, too, and she works at a magazine.” His eyes brighten with a sudden realization. “She’s attending your event here at the hotel in a few days, actually. She’s really excited to meet you.”  
  
Kyungsoo finds himself smiling again. “In that case, I’ll be sure to ask for her professional opinion.”  
  
“You won’t be disappointed, sir.”  
  
“Thank you, Paolo.”  
  
The suite is enormous—a good fifty percent larger than Kyungsoo’s one-bedroom back in Seoul. They’ve furnished it in safari chic, all white and airy, with antique fixtures and opulent linens. The tub in the bathroom rests on iron-carved lion’s feet, with a wooden tray resting over it. “You can put your wine here while you soak,” Paolo had said as he toured Kyungsoo through the facilities. “Even a book.”  
  
Kyungsoo will probably do both later.  
  
When Paolo leaves, he ambles over to the windows and parts the gauzy curtains for a look. It’s only seven o’clock, but already the sky is dark. The hotel is in the heart of Makati, the financial district, which is congested with traffic. Cars, buses, and colorful jeepneys line the streets outside, lights flashing red and gold. Horns blare in the distance to create an ambient hum. Kyungsoo surveys the shared gleam of the buildings, the vehicles, the LED billboards—a marriage of glitter and grime, just like Seoul.  
  
It’s his first time in this city, but everything is familiar.  
  
He’s not sure how long he’s been staring out into the skyline when he hears a knock at the door. It’s three knocks, actually, in quick and quiet succession, followed by the bell. Almost like a code.  
  
Kyungsoo knows what that means.  
  
It takes him ten steps to cross the room from the windows to the foyer (it would have taken twelve if he weren’t moving so quickly). Just as he gets the door open, a hot, urgent mouth connects to his.  
  
Strong arms wrap around Kyungsoo like a vice; one hand sliding between his shoulder blades, another curving over his ass. He sighs, more relieved than he cares to admit, as the door bangs shut and his back is pressed firmly against it. He lets the kiss deepen by parting his lips, and immediately his tongue is sucked, as if it were a piece of candy. He tastes cigarettes and peppermint and the salt of desire, and that’s all the prompting he needs.  
  
Deftly, Kyungsoo pops a button, unzips a fly, and sinks his hand into a pair of Calvin Kleins. His fingers circle flesh, and his pulse quickens at a groan.  
  
“Want you,” the man coaxes—and yes, his lover is a man, and Kyungsoo has been entirely seduced by him. “Get me off, Soo.”  
  
“Right here?” Kyungsoo feels his throat and his jeans tighten simultaneously.  
  
Plush lips graze his jaw. “Yeah.” There is some quick work underneath his belt, and Kyungsoo finds himself unzipped (and held) in a similar fashion. “I’ll race you to it.”  
  
Kyungsoo’s chuckle transforms into a moan as a hand begins to stroke him in his underwear. He does the same, tight and fast, remembering that he started it. Soon they’re just panting into each other’s mouths, lapping up heated encouragements. Kyungsoo’s free hand tugs at the hairs behind a long nape. There is a tongue tracing his ear, and a palm kneading his ass. The room swells with the quiet, desperate sounds of pleasure.  
  
Release comes with a choked-off cry, a sagging against the door, and a sliding down to the expensive carpet. Bodies slump together in sticky ruin. Outside, a siren echoes like a dream.  
  
“Jongin.” Kyungsoo’s voice is husky because he’s tired, and he hasn’t spoken in a while, and he’s just gotten laid. “Hi.”  
  
He can tell someone likes it. “Are you sexy-talking me right now?” There is mischief mixed with lethargy in Jongin’s tone. “Go on.”  
  
Kyungsoo keeps his grin to himself. “I’m glad you came.”  
  
“You came, too,” Jongin replies lewdly, even in his post-coital haze. “Glad to see I haven’t lost my touch after four months.”  
  
His cheek is warm and stubbled where it rests against Kyungsoo’s neck. Kyungsoo slaps it lightly. Jongin starts, then laughs.  
  
“Real mature,” Kyungsoo says. “You know what I mean.”  
  
“I’m  _kidding_ ,” says the man with the magic hands and silken tongue, laughing again.  
  
His mirth peters out gradually, as though a spell has fallen over him. The soft overhead lighting hits his face just right, and Kyungsoo watches it glow like the sun behind a cloud. Jongin’s skin is a little toasty, a little rosy. The space between his collarbones is flushed.  
  
“Missed…” He brushes his thumb over Kyungsoo’s knuckles. “This.”  
  
Kyungsoo murmurs, “I know,” noting the pause but saying nothing of it.  
  
Jongin cranes up. Their mouths meet like two slices of the same fruit. “Nice to see you.” His voice is as soft as a summer plum.  
  
“Welcome to Manila,” Kyungsoo says simply. He pulls Jongin in, and a siren sounds again.  
  
  
  
  
_When we sleep, we do not sleep._  
_I touch you (high)._  
_You kiss me (deep)._  
  
_Your lips are made of gin and lime,_  
_and drunken over me they sweep._  
  
_My hands will keep us both in time;_  
_our figures fall into a heap._  
  
_The stars awaken at my sigh,_  
_and through the windowsill they peep._  
  
_We shall not pay them any mind_  
_and to our pillowcases keep._  
  
_Because to me,_  
_you are the brightest_  
_in the sky,_  
_and in the deep._  
  
_When we sleep, we do not sleep,_  
_we never, ever sleep._  
  
— “Sleepless,” Do Kyungsoo  
  
  
  
  
They meet at one of Joonmyun’s parties, where every creative worth knowing meets, because Joonmyun knows everybody. Kyungsoo is the wide-eyed newcomer to the inner circle, freshly plucked from Internet obscurity. His first book, an anthology of sixty-two tiny poems he’d posted on Tumblr, is still in press. It will launch five months later to staggering acclaim that shocks even Joonmyun, the publishing wünderkind.  
  
But at this particular party, Kyungsoo is a nobody.  
  
Jongin, on the other hand, is a fixture at these things. Kyungsoo distinctly remembers the word “trouble” coming to mind when the younger man strides into the VIP section. Jongin is lean and long and louche, with a tilt to his brow and mischief in his mouth. Model, of course. His is an effortless beauty that intrigues Kyungsoo more and more as Jongin weaves through the crowd; a dressed-down standout.  
  
Little does he know that Jongin has seen him first.  
  
Joonmyun introduces them at the bar, where Kyungsoo has taken up residence, at Jongin’s request. Then they are left alone.  
  
“I’ve seen you somewhere,” is Jongin’s opening line. His features are softer up close, and his voice strangely deferential. “Haven’t I?”  
  
Kyungsoo shakes his head. “I just write,” he says. “I’ve seen you, though.”  
  
“Where?”  
  
“There’s a Giordano billboard of you outside my apartment.”  
  
That is the first time he makes Jongin laugh. “I can’t write for shit,” the model replies, pivoting. “Joonmyun-hyung says you’re the next Lang Leav.”  
  
“I don’t know about that.” Kyungsoo toys with his wine, then brings it to his lips. Jongin’s eyes linger on their shape longer than they should, even after Kyungsoo puts the glass down. “I’m not sure how replicable a runaway hit is.”  
  
“You just need good word of mouth.” Jongin licks his lips and smiles all crooked. “Somehow, I got  _this_ ”—he draws a circle in the air around his face—“on that billboard outside your building. Word of mouth.” He maintains eye contact the entire time, lids a touch too heavy to be innocent.  
  
It is flirtation at the very least, seduction at the very best. Kyungsoo isn’t about to miss either opportunity. “You’re beautiful, too,” he points out, nice and easy. The wine helps him do it. “That must count for something.”  
  
The compliment is an open door, and it draws Jongin in like a magnet. Not enough to crowd him, but enough to make a point. “Funny,” Jongin murmurs, lashes close enough for Kyungsoo to count. “That’s exactly what I was telling hyung about you.”  
  
By the end of the night, Kyungsoo finds himself well inside Jongin’s apartment, sitting on Jongin’s Tempur mattress, his pants around his ankles and Jongin’s beautiful face between his thighs.  
  
“No promises,” he tells Jongin in the morning, when Jongin asks if they can do this again. “No strings attached.”  
  
  
  
  
That was three years ago.  
  
Kyungsoo has published two more anthologies of his poetry and started touring for each book. Jongin has appeared in two music videos, twelve more billboards, countless magazines.  
  
They’ve been sleeping together, without ever being together, ever since.  
  
  
  
  
_They pieced you from sun-sand-and-sea and created_  
_the glue:_  
_beauty._  
_I have never met anyone who looked better naked_  
_than you_  
_(on me)._  
  
— “Beach Born,” Do Kyungsoo  
  
  
  
  
Brunch comes with a white tablecloth and chilled rosé.  
  
“I ordered it,” Jongin explains from the edge of the bed, still naked inside his bathrobe, “because we forgot to last night.”  
  
Kyungsoo has just pulled on a shirt and boxers. He bites the side of Jongin’s neck. “You used to hate rosé.”  
  
“It’s too sweet.” Jongin tugs Kyungsoo between his legs to hold him. “But I’m used to it now.”  
  
He doesn’t say, “Because you like it,” but Kyungsoo will pretend that’s what he meant.  
  
Jongin hooks his chin over Kyungsoo’s shoulder, reaching for a piece of fruit. He munches on it contentedly, his free hand at rest over Kyungsoo’s tummy. Kyungsoo has never quite figured out if Jongin does this consciously or unconsciously: the compulsory way he clings whenever they are together.  
  
Kyungsoo butters a piece of toast. “How’ve you been?” His tone is light, but there is hesitance tiptoeing through the question. It’s been months. “We haven’t talked—”  
  
“—because the sex took too long,” Jongin puts in jauntily. His nails scratch over Kyungsoo’s faint abs, and Kyungsoo’s stomach jumps. “Where did you pick up that thing you did with your mouth? You know, the—” Jongin mimes something obscene, his tongue flicking in the air. “Someone teach you that?”  
  
Kyungsoo elbows him, hard. “Quit it.” He’s already turned on, though. It’s embarrassing. He’s glad that Jongin’s the one sitting behind him, and not the other way around.  
  
Jongin is completely unfazed. The hand over Kyungsoo’s stomach slides down, down, down, until it has Kyungsoo gently cupped. “Have you been sleeping with someone else these past few months? You can tell me.” His breath smells like melon. “I don’t mind.”  
  
_No,_ Kyungsoo thinks to himself clearly, even in the fog of arousal. _I just wish you did._  
  
In thinly veiled frustration, he tosses his bread back into its basket. Jongin manages to lick his cheek before Kyungsoo is rearranging them both, straddling Jongin’s lap and pushing him into the mattress.  
  
“I meant,” Kyungsoo says, undoing Jongin’s robe so that it falls away, “we haven’t talked much since I started the book tour.” He nips Jongin’s bottom lip. “I haven’t had much time to sleep, much less sleep around.”  
  
Jongin hums pleasantly, chasing Kyungsoo’s mouth to give it the same treatment, and more. “So you don’t have another me.” His kisses are deep and deliberate; completely intoxicating, like the rest of his body.  
  
“I don’t want another you,” Kyungsoo hears himself say. The surprise in Jongin’s eyes is mild, but Kyungsoo sees it and regrets his candor. So he adds, “I’m fine fucking just you,” and hopes the dirty talk buries his moment of weakness.  
  
It does. Jongin bites his lips, eyes dark. He hooks his legs around Kyungsoo’s waist. “Are you going to fuck me now?”  
  
Kyungsoo is still wearing his boxers. They pose the flimsiest of barriers to Jongin’s warm, taut body. He presses their foreheads together, shutting his eyes. “Do you want me to?”  
  
“If you aren’t too hungry,” Jongin tongues the seam of Kyungsoo’s lips, “then, yes, please.”  
  
They do it hard yet slow, in the familiar tango of old lovers. Kyungsoo manages to keep a conversation going, as though his thrusts and Jongin’s gasps were more for sport than seduction.  
  
“I saw your Casio ad in Thailand,” he grits out, as Jongin groans hotly into his ear. “It was a big one, on the highway.”  
  
“How did I look?” Jongin asks, eyes fluttering with lust.  
  
“Pretty.” Kyungsoo kisses him.  
  
“Prettier than right now?” The effervescent pink in Jongin’s face is like the rosé Kyungsoo loves to drink. Jongin smolders at him, sexy as hell, and in an instant, Kyungsoo is pulled deeper into a tight heat.  
  
“Shit,” he sputters, driving in harder. “Almost. Not quite.” He dips to suck a nipple into his mouth, licking it pert, and Jongin keens. “You’re the prettiest like this, when you’re with me.”  
  
“Because you fuck me so well,” Jongin says breathily. He grabs one of Kyungsoo’s ass cheeks for emphasis, giving it a bruising squeeze. “You give me exactly what my body wants.” He’s smiling, somewhat, and his teeth are white and perfect.  
  
Kyungsoo wants that smile all to himself. “Yeah,” he mutters, setting a relentless pace that makes Jongin’s top lip curl over his teeth. A part of him feels incredible. Another part of him aches. “I’ve spoiled you rotten.”  
  
Kyungsoo finishes first, spilling into the condom they’d rolled over him together. Then he puts his mouth on Jongin, just the way Jongin likes it, until his entire body melts over the tip of Kyungsoo’s tongue.  
  
It doesn’t feel as good as it usually does. Not for Kyungsoo, at least—because he’s thinking about something else. Something more meaningful than the pursuit of his own pleasure in the body of someone beautiful. Something he’s been thinking about for a very long time.  
  
“Enough, Soo,” Jongin begs when Kyungsoo shows no sign of pulling off. He pushes Kyungsoo’s face away and hauls him up to eye level. “Kiss me.”  
  
The moments after sex are usually spent mouthing at each other, tasting the remnants of their desire and staying impossibly close. Today, Kyungsoo stares down into face of his lover—fuck buddy—and doesn’t feel like lying.  
  
He clears the cobwebs from his throat. He bends to peck Jongin on the mouth. There is no sensuality in it; only solemnity and obedience. He slides off the bed, thighs like jelly, and makes for the bathroom.  
  
“Where are you going?” Jongin calls after him, spread out on the bed like a starfish, put-out.  
  
“Gotta pee,” Kyungsoo calls back, even though he doesn’t. He  _does_ have to take a cold shower and get his feelings back in check. “Eat without me.”  
  
  
  
  
_You’ve been sleeping in my bed for weeks._  
_I would change the sheets_  
_if I weren’t so weak_  
_to your smell_  
_and to your heat._  
  
— “Sheets,” Do Kyungsoo  
  
  
  
  
On the fourth month of their relationship—arrangement?—Jongin asks Kyungsoo the question he’s been dreading.  
  
“Can I see some of your poetry?”  
  
They’re in Kyungsoo’s apartment in Namdaemun, sitting out on the small balcony because Jongin wants to smoke. It’s past midnight, and they’ve just had sex. Kyungsoo’s bedroom reeks of it.  
  
He shifts in his chair. “Seriously?”  
  
“Why not?” A long ribbon of smoke escapes Jongin’s lips. French exhale. “I mean, if it makes you uncomfortable, I could just ask Joonmyun-hyung for an advance copy.” He grins, and Kyungsoo knows it’s an attempt to put him at ease.  
  
_The Smell of Your Hair_ will be available to the public in two weeks, both online and in stores. Joonmyun’s company is being really savvy about their marketing strategy—seeding the most poignant poems to social media influencers in the form of typography.  
  
(“It’s the millennial way,” Joonmyun had quipped, showing Kyungsoo an Instagram post that went viral in a day. Seven-thousand likes, too many comments to count. It had blown Kyungsoo’s mind, especially when he saw most of the commenters were asking, “Where is this from?”)  
  
So it isn’t the attention that makes him so guarded about his work. It’s the subject matter. The poems in  _The Smell of Your Hair—_ all sixty-two of them—are about a longtime boyfriend who’d abandoned him for marriage to a woman, and whose loss had left Kyungsoo stripped and raw. He’s not sure if he’s ready to let Jongin see him any more naked than the guy already has.  
  
A chuckle pierces Kyungsoo’s reverie. “Forget it,” Jongin says generously. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” There isn’t a trace of displeasure in his tone, because Jongin’s kindness surpasses even his sensuality. “Sorry I asked, Soo.”  
  
Of course, that’s exactly what changes Kyungsoo’s mind. “No,” he says, contemplative at first, and then more adamantly, again. “No, that’s not it. I want to.”  
  
The light in Jongin’s face mimics the moon’s—bright and dreamy. “Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah.” Kyungsoo nods, bashful all of a sudden. His chair creaks as he gets up to retrieve his own advance copy. It’s the one he’d planned to give Jongin at his book launch in two weeks. Just to be nice. “Be right back.”  
  
  
  
  
Kyungsoo’s follow-up to  _The Smell of Your Hair_ is released in a year’s time. This one’s got a hundred poems, flat. The title for it is pulled from his favorite one.  
  
_Our Last Nights as Lovers._  
  
Kyungsoo tells Joonmyun it’s a reflection on several past relationships coming back to light, now that he’s on the last year of his twenties. Joonmyun smiles beatifically; tells him to say the same thing to the press, because it’s a lovely sentiment.  
  
They both know he’s written every poem with Jongin in mind.  
  
Kyungsoo just never expected them— _this—_ to outlast the book.  
  
  
  
  
_You are a mystery to me._  
_I know nothing of you;_  
_nothing more than your kiss._  
_But I miss you, Mysterious,_  
_deliriously._  
  
— “Fever Dream,” Do Kyungsoo  
  
  
  
  
“They’re holding a dinner for me tonight,” Kyungsoo says, stuffing his hands into his pockets. When he swallows, the flat, sticky sound of it is audible. “The Manila event people, I mean. Do you want to come?”  
  
Jongin stands head and shoulders above everybody else in this queue. They’re at a Starbucks a few blocks from the hotel, and it is  _packed._ They’d spent all morning in bed, and all afternoon at the Ayala Museum, lingering at the Yee I-Lann exhibit because Jongin loves her lines. Now Kyungsoo is all museumed out, and Jongin wants a Passion Tango Tea.  
  
He looks over at Kyungsoo, mouth curled up curiously. “Am I allowed to?”  
  
The expression in his eyes is questioning, disguised as nonchalance. Kyungsoo is acutely aware of how big of a deal this is. He’s only invited Jongin to attend something with/for him twice: the respective launches of  _The Smell of Your Hair_ and  _Our Last Nights as Lovers._ All other times, Kyungsoo’s invitations have extended as far as his bedroom.  
  
(It should have been thrice. Only, Jongin was scheduled for Paris Fashion Week when the new book launched this year. Kyungsoo knew this ahead of time and decided, at the last minute, it would be best not to say anything at all. Joonmyun tutted when he showed up to the party alone. Kyungsoo’s bestfriend, Baekhyun, who’d come with a date, called him a pussy. If Jongin found out—and Kyungsoo is certain he did—he never made a fuss.)  
  
Jongin has never asked him to come to anything. Not one show. Not one little shoot.  
  
“Of course.” Kyungsoo is embarrassed again. “Don’t be ridiculous.”  
  
“But isn’t that, like…” Jongin scratches the side of his face. It’s darkened by a five o’clock shadow. “I don’t know. Crossing the line?”  
  
Kyungsoo cocks a brow. “What line?”  
  
“The line that you draw,” Jongin says, “between what happens with me and what happens in your regular life.”  
  
Kyungsoo feels a knot in his stomach, sharp and tight. It’s unlike Jongin to be so straightforward about their situation. Kyungsoo himself only references it obliquely (“I’m not dating right now,” he’d told his brother when Seungsoo offered to set him up. “It’s complicated.”). Jongin doesn’t discuss it all. He just shows up when Kyungsoo texts him to.  
  
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Kyungsoo mutters, helplessly, even though he does, perfectly. “It’s just a dinner.”  
  
The long look Jongin levels at him does not waver, even as they move up the line. Kyungsoo’s feet are like lead, and there’s a bitterness in the back of his mouth. It mingles with the taste of the last kiss Jongin had given him.  
  
“I didn’t mean to upset you.” Jongin’s voice is low and sweet. His eyes look cautious, like a child’s. “It’s just that you’ve— _we’ve—_ never done anything like that before. I don’t want to mess anything up for you.”  
  
“Jongin,” Kyungsoo reiterates, “it’s just a dinner.” He forces a smile. His stomach is roiling with acid. “You couldn’t possibly.”  
  
“Okay.” The Korean version rolls off of Jongin’s tongue with care.  _A-ra-seo._ “Then I’d love to come, if you want me to.”  
  
The stroll back to the hotel is a silent one. The ice cubes in Kyungsoo’s Americano slosh in time with the ones in Jongin’s tea. They’re in an empty street; Kyungsoo can hear the soles of his sneakers scraping against the asphalt of this sidewalk. It’s a balmy afternoon. The breeze is overly affectionate, running its fingers through Jongin’s bangs.  
  
Jongin catches him looking. His smile is genuine. Kyungsoo releases the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.  
  
“I was surprised, you know, to hear from you.” Jongin takes a small sip of his drink. “Before I got your email a few days ago, I hadn’t heard from you in a while.”  
  
“I know you’ve been travelling for Fashion Week.” Kyungsoo tries to put conviction in his tone. “You’ve been working so much. I didn’t want to disturb you. I just heard through Joonmyun-hyung that you were going to be in Manila the same time I was.”  
  
“My show here was a week ago,” Jongin is looking down at him, skin backlit. “I just extended to see you.”  
  
“Oh.” Kyungsoo didn’t know that. The sudden admission spreads over his skin before it sinks in, velvety. “I…”  
  
“We’ve been through Fashion Week before, though.” Jongin doesn’t miss a beat. “You always used to call me, no matter what country I was in.” There’s that telltale mischief threatening at the corners of his mouth. “Remember last year when I was in Milan, and we were trying to have phone sex?”  
  
So many emotions, mixing in a dangerous cocktail. Kyungsoo’s response is completely on autopilot. “I was talking about going down on you. Baekhyun yelled at me to stop from the other room. I didn’t know he was over.”  
  
“I fell off the bed laughing. Cracked my phone screen.” Jongin chuckles vaguely. “Why didn’t we do that this year?”  
  
“You walked forty-odd shows across six cities,” Kyungsoo reasons, the knot in his gut connecting to another, and another. “And I had the new book to take care of.”  
  
Jongin’s lips are wet from his tea. He wipes away the excess on the back of his hand. The movement obscures his face. “Were you angry with me?”  
  
Kyungsoo whips his head in Jongin’s direction. His coffee is sweating in his hand. “What?”  
  
Jongin has his eyes locked on him like a target. “That’s how it felt, at least.” His voice lowers a degree, and his eyes soften in color, infinitesimally. “Were you?”  
  
_Angry,_ Kyungsoo internalizes,  _is different from jealous._ “I just wanted to give you space after what happened at hyung’s birthday.” He mops the moisture hugging his cup with the hem of his shirt. It allows him to break eye contact. “You know we never talked about it,” he says. “And I didn’t hear from you either, Jongin.”  
  
He’s not sure if Jongin’s exhale is bemused or frustrated. It’s certainly jagged, and sounds like a bit of both. “You know I just follow your lead.” Jongin finally turns away, and the warmth of his gaze is lost. “Ever since.”  
  
  
  
  
_When I was young_  
_I was never told_  
_of the way sorrow clung_  
_to memories old._  
  
_I pray when I’m old_  
_I’ll remember the fun:_  
_the songs sung,_  
_the fears flung,_  
_the lips pressed,_  
_you, undressed—_  
_not the sadness_  
_from when I was young._  
  
— “When I Was Young,” Do Kyungsoo  
  
  
  
  
Soojung is not Jongin’s girlfriend, just like Jongin is not Kyungsoo’s boyfriend. But she  _is_ Jongin’s, and Kyungsoo finds that out completely on accident.  
  
He’s been seeing Jongin—seeing him naked, at least—for a year and a half. The sex is sensational. It’s the intensity of their body chemistry, more than the audacity of it (neither of them are particularly adventurous). Still, Kyungsoo can now count on both hands the number of times they’ve hooked up outside an apartment or hotel room. And that’s saying a lot for his square ass.  
  
Jongin likes cars. Likes undoing Kyungsoo, with all their clothes still on, by putting his hands on him in deserted parking lots. Likes Kyungsoo doing the same, as they sit next to each other in the backseat; slick sounds, glistening sweat, skin strobed by streetlamps. Likes keeping Kyungsoo in the driver’s seat to climb all over him, pushing slow, riding fast, keening high, kissing dirty.  
  
Kyungsoo likes anything Jongin likes.  
  
(In retrospect, that should have been a warning sign.)  
  
One night, when Jongin has stayed over much too late to call an Über or take the subway, Kyungsoo offers to drive him home. Jongin has an early call time, and his place is closer to the shoot than Kyungsoo’s is.  
  
Jongin resists. “I can just walk…”  
  
Kyungsoo insists. “You’re across the river, Jongin.”  
  
Even when he’s already in the passenger’s seat of Kyungsoo’s sedan, Jongin still feels the need to ask. “You sure you don’t mind?” His phone and his cigarettes are in his lap. They’re the only things he’d brought when Kyungsoo called him over. “I’m on the other side of town.”  
  
“No big deal.” Kyungsoo’s already backing out of his parking space. “Fasten your seatbelt.”  
  
It takes only ten minutes to get from Namdaemun to Apgujeong, where Jongin’s ritzy apartment complex is. It helps that it’s four in the morning and there’s zero traffic. On foot it would have taken an hour, or more.  
  
Kyungsoo mentions this, with yawning amusement, as they pull up to Jongin’s place.  
  
Jongin thanks him by slipping his tongue through the heart shape of Kyungsoo’s lips and snaking a hand underneath his shirt. “You’re so hot,” Jongin murmurs, rubbing a nipple, “when you try to act smug.”  
  
Kyungsoo forgets how tired he is, pulling Jongin into his lap so they can make out a little more. It’s not so much to get off as it is to stretch their last minutes together. Jongin rocks against him every time they latch lips: left side, right side, back and forth.  
  
The buzzing of Jongin’s phone, left face down on the passenger seat, disrupts this dance. Kyungsoo pries his lips away from the suction of Jongin’s kiss, staring at the phone, then at his dashboard clock.  
  
“Who calls this early?” Kyungsoo’s brows knit together. “Is it your shoot?”  
  
Jongin’s lips are swollen pink. “My call time’s at six,” he says huskily, shaking his head. “I’ve got two hours to go. Hold on.”  
  
He crawls over Kyungsoo, flopping back into his seat. He picks up without checking the caller ID, adjusting his semi in his sweatpants. “Hello?”  
  
Kyungsoo’s already hard, so he just pulls his flimsy sleep shirt over his crotch and hopes for the best. He flips his hazard lights on, in case someone pulls up behind them.  
  
“Soojung, slow down,” Jongin says, with sudden urgency in his voice. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, and Kyungsoo watches as they sharpen to full alertness.  “Are you drunk?”  
  
“Everything okay?” Kyungsoo whispers. The way Jongin glances at him, pausing before he nods and mouths a  _yes_ , is far from convincing. It prompts a familiar echo in the pit of Kyungsoo’s stomach.  
  
“You always drink too much with Sehun. I don’t like it.” Jongin shakes his head. It’s obviously a recurring issue. Kyungsoo files this information away without a word. “Are you at the usual place?” Jongin turns his face towards the window. “All right. Stay there. I’m coming to get you both.”  
  
Discreetly, Kyungsoo presses the button that unlocks Jongin’s door.  
  
The dull click gets Jongin’s attention. He’s looking at Kyungsoo again, and his eyes speak in a foreign language that Kyungsoo cannot interpret.  
  
“I just got home,” Jongin murmurs into his phone.  
  
The echo takes on the sound of a clatter. Kyungsoo recognizes hollowness when he feels it, because he’s felt it so powerfully in the past. He feels hollow, and the depth of it resonates, especially when Jongin says, “I was just with a friend.”  
  
  
  
  
Jongin will explain later on that Soojung is his bestfriend. That they dated back in college. That he’d been unfaithful to her with a man. That they aren’t together anymore, even though they never really broke up. That they live in the same apartment building and see each other every day. That they still sleep together, every once in a while, when either of them feel lonely. That eventually, Soojung would sleep with the same man, Sehun, who’d fallen in love with her after she’d befriended him. That Sehun lives a stop away, and Jongin has dinner with them on weekends. That sometimes, when they’re drunk, they kiss. That Jongin knows it’s bizarre, a baffling mess, but that’s just how magnificent Soojung is.  
  
That Jongin “loved her, a lot.”  
  
Kyungsoo thought he only loved men.  
  
“Do you mind it at all?” Jongin asks, soft-eyed, after he’s told Kyungsoo the whole sordid story. “I know I should have told you sooner.”  
  
“There was quite a lot to tell,” Kyungsoo answers lightly, like his words are small stones skipping over a lake. He will use those same stones to build a wall around the truth.  
  
He’s in love,  _again_ , and it’s terrible, because it’s doomed before it can even begin.  
  
Jongin’s grin is a perfect crescent. He thinks Kyungsoo is only teasing. “I didn’t think you’d care, the way we’ve been carrying on.” Then Kyungsoo’s words are quoted back to him: “No promises. No strings attached.”  
  
Kyungsoo produces half a smile and a whole shrug. The less he says, the better. The more he says, the bigger the chance that he’ll lose this.  
  
“So you don’t mind?” Jongin presses on, determined on getting the go-signal. “I’ve already told Soojung about you.”  
  
Soojung is not Jongin’s girlfriend, just like Jongin is not Kyungsoo’s boyfriend. But she  _is_ Jongin’s—and Kyungsoo doesn’t know what  _he_ is.  
  
“No,” he says. “I don’t.”  
  
  
  
  
_She has_  
_honey hair,_  
_milky thighs,_  
_sugar lips,_  
_syrup eyes,_  
_caramel_  
_in her smell,_  
_butterscotch_  
_in her touch,_  
_chocolate-_  
_covered breasts._  
_Sweet tooth,_  
_taste test._  
_She has you,_  
_candy man,_  
_in the palm_  
_of her hand._  
  
— “Sweet Tooth,” Do Kyungsoo  
  
  
  
  
Jongin has picked out a buttondown, jeans, and suede loafers for dinner. He looks relaxed but expensive. Model off-duty.  
  
In contrast, Kyungsoo’s navy blue suit makes him feel stuffy. He’s already switched out the dress shirt for a white tee after seeing Jongin’s outfit, but he still can’t manage that jetsetter  _je ne se quoi._ It’s because he’s not really that fancy, he concludes, shoehorning himself into a brown monk strap.  
  
“Look at you,” Jongin says when he emerges from the bathroom, freshly shaven. He didn’t bother to do so in his own room—just came back to Kyungsoo’s, dressed and pressed, and ripped open the kit by the washbasin. The towel he was using to wipe his face is discarded on the bed. “Straight out of  _GQ_.”  
  
“Look at you,” Kyungsoo parrots, tugging on his jacket sleeves. “Giorgio Armani.”  
  
Surprise is an exclamation mark stamped over Jongin’s face. “How’d you know that?”  
  
“I keep up with your work.” Kyungsoo crosses his legs, going for casual. “I’m very observant, you see.”  
  
Jongin’s smile spreads slow and steady, like the stained-glass skies of dusk. “Is that so?”  
  
It only takes a second for him to peck Kyungsoo’s cheek, feather-light and lingering. It is intimate, not sexual. It conveys affection, not seduction. It is the kind of kiss he imagines Jongin has given Soojung many times over.  
  
When Kyungsoo realizes this—that Jongin has caressed him like a  _real_  lover, not a recurring conquest—he freezes.  
  
Jongin does, too.  
  
Before Kyungsoo can even recover, Jongin is kneeling in front of him and taking the shoehorn out of his hand.  
  
“Let me,” Jongin says, expression hidden underneath his fringe. Kyungsoo can only see the crest of his cheekbones and the sculpture of his nose. “They taught us how in Tokyo.” He slips the horn behind the heel of Kyungsoo’s bare foot, then eases it smoothly into the other shoe. “You’ll preserve the leather better this way.”  
  
“Thank you,” Kyungsoo tells him, eyes focused intently on Jongin’s hands. They remain, without explanation, around his ankle.  
  
The pad of Jongin’s thumb strokes over his anklebone. Kyungsoo twitches, and he is released. Jongin exhales evenly. Kyungsoo can feel the stream of breath through his thin dress pants.  
  
When Jongin finally glances up, he is smooth-faced—still smiling, like nothing out of the ordinary has happened. “You’re welcome.”  
  
“What exactly did they teach you in Tokyo?” Kyungsoo mumbles before he can stop himself. His frustration simmers beneath his skin, and his mouth is moving faster than his mind. “How to give people the boyfriend experience?”  
  
He’s not sure what he was expecting, because it happens so fast—but it’s certainly not the way Jongin’s face shutters, like Kyungsoo has just called him something foul.  
  
“Wait,” Kyungsoo backtracks, lungs flooding with panic. “I didn’t mean to—”  
  
Jongin rises to his feet in one fluid movement. “It’s fine,” he says, waving Kyungsoo off. His smile has been buried by an impenetrable smirk, sharp around the edges. Bulletproof. “No harm done.”  
  
“Jongin,” Kyungsoo pushes, unwilling to let go of his fumble. “That was stupid of me to say. I don’t know why I said it.” Jongin’s hand is dangling by his side. If Kyungsoo just reached up, five, six inches, he could lace their fingers together. He doesn’t. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Good.” There is a glimmer of tenderness in Jongin’s dark pupils. Faint and glassy expectation. A chink in the proverbial armor. Then his mouth pulls into the wicked shape he reserves for the cameras, and all vulnerability vanishes in a wink. “Time for dinner.”  
  
  
  
  
_You have dueled to the death:_  
_tooth and nail,_  
_blood and sweat._  
  
_You say you’ll soon enough forget_  
_the hot love/hate that you regret._  
  
_I’ve been fighting a cold war:_  
_silent mouth,_  
_icy heart._  
  
_I say I’d rather have the heat_  
_of the love/hate you won’t repeat._  
  
— “Fire and Ice,” Do Kyungsoo  
  
  
  
  
Like so many people his age, Jongin doesn’t put a name to what he has with Soojung, or what Soojung has with Sehun, or what Sehun has with him. He has learned, over the years, to be honest about who he is, what he likes, and how even that can change.  
  
This is why Kyungsoo knows exactly how attracted Jongin is to him, and how unique their arrangement is in comparison to everyone else in Jongin’s sex life.  
  
It’s a sweltering summer afternoon, the kind that makes Kyungsoo’s eyes sting from the endless perspiration. Over two years have passed since he and Jongin started what they started. They’re both in Jongin’s shower today, taking turns soaping up and groping south. Jongin ends up on his knees, palms flat on the backs of Kyungsoo’s thighs, getting his fill of Kyungsoo’s flavor.  
  
The melody of their moaning bounces against the tiles. “Fuck,” Kyungsoo gasps. “Don’t make me come, Jongin.”  
  
Slippery heat is abandoned for cool air. “You want me?” Jongin is all beestung lips and wrecked eyes. “You want to be inside me?”  
  
Instead of saying yes, Kyungsoo drags him up by the back of his neck and kisses him forcefully. “You have a filthy mouth,” he growls, tasting the salt of his own skin as Jongin kisses back.  
  
“Stop stalling,” Jongin entices him, fingernails scratching over Kyungsoo’s back. “I’m ready.” The model spins around to face the wall, and his body bends for Kyungsoo’s taking.  
  
This is not the first time Jongin’s asked for it today. Kyungsoo doesn’t even have to do much before he slips in, and they make the most toe-curling, mind-blowing sound together.  
  
Sex—copious amounts of it—is how Kyungsoo copes with his tragic, twisted, unrequited love.  
  
When it’s all over, and they’ve sudsed up again to actually get clean, Jongin lets something slip.  
  
First, he has Kyungsoo answer an unexpected question. “Do you see anybody else besides me?”  
  
They’re face to face under the spray, naked as babies. Kyungsoo keeps a poker face. “Why do you ask?”  
  
“Do you?”  
  
_No._ “None of your business.” Kyungsoo allows himself a smile to match his joking timbre. It seems risky to tell Jongin he is the only one.  
  
Jongin clicks his tongue. “You’re a tough one to crack. I told you all about  _my_  shit.”  
  
Kyungsoo’s hum is noncommittal.  
  
Jongin huffs out of his nose. “Fine, don’t answer. I was just curious if you’ve ever—” he looks almost shy, “—bottomed for anybody.”  
  
It’s such a strange thing to bring up. Kyungsoo willingly takes the bait. “Never.” He chews on the inside of his cheek. “I wouldn’t be good at it. Too…stiff. Not like you.”  
  
Jongin blinks. His gaze shines with appraisal. “You’re not stiff.”  
  
“How about you?” Kyungsoo pivots, blood pumping to his face. “Ever top?”  
  
Jongin rakes his bangs off his forehead. “Always.” Tiny rivulets of water dribble down his face. “I prefer it.” And then, the confession: “You were my first.”  
  
Kyungsoo feels himself step away from the stream of the shower, just to put distance between them, even though he’d rather be close. He’s only half-aware of what’s happening, and he doesn’t know what to say, except, “Why me?”  
  
Jongin thinks it’s a game, like he always does. He steps through the spray, dripping wet, and gently cages Kyungsoo against the cool tile.  
  
“I don’t know,” he murmurs, and he kisses Kyungsoo once. Twice. Thrice. It’s passionate but simultaneously delicate. The roof of Kyungsoo’s mouth tingles and the centers of his palms prick and the left side of his chest aches, especially when Jongin says, “I just can’t resist you.”  
  
  
  
  
A week after the incident, Kyungsoo is out buying groceries. It’s the FamilyMart near Joonmyun’s office in Gangnam, not his usual place—but they’re organized pretty identically, so it’s a non-issue.  
  
Kyungsoo is by the refrigerators, pulling out a six-pack of Hite beer, when he hears a familiar laugh. Rich and mischievous. Just a touch nasal.  
  
He already knows it’s Jongin before he twists to look.  
  
There he is on the opposite side of the store, standing with his hip cocked in a loose shirt and jeans. His back is turned, but Kyungsoo could identify every inch of Kim Jongin’s body, naked or clothed, from the amount of time he’s spent touching it.  
  
There’s a girl with him. A very beautiful girl. It is her face Kyungsoo sees over the broad span of Jongin’s shoulders. Her eyes are almond-shaped and inquisitive. Her hair is dark and long, with soft bends in it that her fingers have probably twirled. Her mouth is a miniature bow—not the round rosebud that would make someone like Baekhyun swoon. Rather, it is a curious, mysterious, perpetual smirk that the poet in Kyungsoo could probably write pages about.  
  
She’s neither voluptuous nor pin-thin. Neither too small, nor too tall. Not too pale and wan, either—just healthy and fresh, like she’s just come from the gym. She has on pretty much the same thing Jongin does: loose shirt, light pants. Kyungsoo’s no expert, but he can’t detect a lick of makeup on her.  
  
She’s chatting to Jongin animatedly; hands interpretive, brows expressive. Kyungsoo can’t quite make it out—but by the sound of Jongin’s laugh, he is thoroughly amused.  
  
Jongin just lets her talk. A nod here and there. Another melodious chuckle. Once, he ruffles her hair into her face, mid-sentence. She only pauses to whine at him, then blows out her lips. The puff of air clears a path through the strands crisscrossing over her eyes.  
  
“Are you doing aegyo?” Kyungsoo hears Jongin tease. “It doesn’t suit you.”  
  
She punches him in the chest. “Jerk.” It can’t have done much damage. Still, Jongin responds with an exaggerated  _oof_ belied by the fact that his body doesn’t move an inch.  
  
“Just kidding.” Jongin reaches for her, pulling her into his chest. “C’mere, Soojung.”  
  
If Kyungsoo hadn’t come from a meeting with Joonmyun to discuss his third book; if he had written all the poems  _before_ he’d thought of a title to run by his editor, as usual; if he’d woken up early enough to do his groceries in Namdaemun, instead of here in Gangnam; if he’d done  _one_ thing,  _anything,_  differently today, then maybe he wouldn’t have had to be privy to certain secret things in the liquor aisle of this FamilyMart.  
  
Soojung lets herself be held, just for a moment. With the grace of a gazelle, she pushes up on her tippy-toes and stamps a kiss into Jongin’s forehead. “I just can’t resist you,” she declares with feigned reluctance, mini bow mouth like a bright crescent moon.  
  
_That’s the smile,_ Kyungsoo thinks, _of someone in love._  
  
His heart drops to his feet.  
  
  
  
  
Jongin texts him later that evening.  
  
_Hey. You busy?_  
  
It’s their code for:  _Are you free to have sex with me?_  
  
Just imagining Jongin with Soojung, doing the same intimate things he does with Kyungsoo—plus things beyond the bedroom that Kyungsoo will never, ever experience—makes him lie.  
  
_Working on the book tonight,_ he texts back.  _Sorry Jongin._  
  
  
  
  
_How do I make you think of me,_  
_when you have thought_  
_of only one_  
_since love was worth a thought?_  
  
_I thought I would not think of you_  
_after I learned_  
_of your one love,_  
_but I suppose I have not learned._  
  
— “Hard-Headed,” Do Kyungsoo


	2. Chapter 2

Miguel looks like he spends all his weekends laid out on some exotic Philippine beach that he sailed to on his yacht. Tall, dark, and handsome, with the understated elegance of old money. He owns a successful chain of bookstores that carries Kyungsoo’s work, translated into English. This is what Kyungsoo is told by the event coordinator when Miguel is seated to his right, smiling warmly and murmuring compliments about  _Certain Secret Things_.  
  
Jongin shakes hands with everybody, cutting a striking figure without having to speak. He knows how to work a room with his face, even if English isn’t his forte.  
  
“An old friend,” Kyungsoo tells their companions when they ask about the other tall, dark, and handsome man by his side.  
  
“I was here for Fashion Week,” Jongin enunciates, his on-camera smile showing off impeccable bone structure. “Now I’m here for moral support.”  
  
It is with the ease of a model sliding into a jacket that Jongin slips into the seat to Kyungsoo’s left.  
  
Dinner is a delicious, deeply conversational affair that lasts three hours. Miguel is in Kyungsoo’s ear for most of it, describing each dish and the region of the country it hails from. Neo Filipino, with French preparation.  
  
“The chef is my cousin,” Miguel says, his voice softer than the crema on Kyungsoo’s cappuccino this morning. “He worked under Alain Ducasse in Paris.”  
  
They talk about other things, too. Like books (Miguel’s all-time favorite is  _One Hundred Years of Solitude,_ which Kyungsoo had written his thesis about in college). And beaches (“I should take you to Palawan,” Miguel says, when Kyungsoo mentions seeing it in a movie). And studying abroad (they’d both gone to NYU for their master’s degrees, just two semesters apart).  
  
Kyungsoo swallows the last of his wine. “We have so much in common,” he observes in wonder.  
  
Miguel refills his glass, getting close. “Except you’re a brilliant poet, and I’m a boring businessman.”  
  
“Not at all,” Kyungsoo laughs, crinkling his eyes. “More like you’re a successful entrepreneur, and I’m a freelancer who’s finally started to make ends meet.”  
  
Miguel’s laugh is as attractive as his face, if that makes any sense. “What a way with words you have.” He’s looking up at Kyungsoo from under his eyelashes, and his cheekbones look a little like Jongin’s from this angle. “All right, then. Let’s see…my home is in Manila, while yours is far away in Seoul.”  
  
“It’s not that far away. Just four hours,” Kyungsoo shares. He’s happy to talk about his own country, especially with a captive audience. “Have you ever been? It’s beautiful this time of year, when the leaves are turning for fall.”  
  
“I have,” Miguel replies, gaze glinting. “But only for the cherry blossom season. I should definitely make plans to visit this autumn.” He licks his lips, stained red with merlot. “If you recommend it.”  
  
Suddenly, it’s as if a match has been lit, and the light from it floods the corners of Kyungsoo’s mind that have been clouded by other things. He’d been so focused on making a good impression at this dinner, so preoccupied with the non-fight he’d had with Jongin upstairs in the room, that he didn’t realize what was happening here.  
  
This guy is flirting with him.  
  
“Oh,” Kyungsoo answers carefully, shifting his eyes away from Miguel’s mouth to the stem of his wine glass. “I’d recommend it to anyone, really.”  
  
He’s still processing the mess he’d talked himself into, trying to pinpoint a tactful escape route, when his hand—resting innocently on the table—is enveloped by another’s.  
  
This hand is larger and warmer than Kyungsoo’s, with familiar fingers that lace through his.  
  
“I’d definitely recommend it,” Jongin says, shrugging off a long-held silence that Kyungsoo blamed on the language barrier. Jongin’s accent is heavy, but the self-assurance in his tone holds even more weight. “We can take you to Nami Island, where the leaves are the prettiest.”  
  
Kyungsoo had tightened his grip on animal instinct. He loves Jongin’s hands—the heat and heft of them, the slenderness of the digits and the slight coarseness of the palms. How those hands feel when Jongin touches him with them; grabs him, strokes him, kneads him, holds him close. Rough with need or cloying with lethargy, they are always indulgent.  
  
_This_  touch Kyungsoo has never felt before, because Jongin has never held his hand.  
  
Not unless it was to pin it above Kyungsoo’s head, by the wrist, out of passion.  
  
Not like this.  
  
Miguel gets the drift. “That’s really gracious of you, Jongin,” he says, smile recalibrated to a slice of sunshine. No more hidden agenda behind those pearly whites. No skin off his back. “I’ll take you up on that if I ever find myself in the area.”  
  
The moment Miguel excuses himself to the restroom, and Kyungsoo is no longer under the full glare of his attention, Jongin releases his hand.  
  
He picks up Kyungsoo’s wine instead of his own and finishes it. His fingertips rub at wet lips, then at dry temples, then over closed lids.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Jongin mutters in barely audible Korean. His eyes are vacant when they connect to Kyungsoo’s. “I ruined your fun.”  
  
Kyungsoo places his hand— _the_ hand—in his lap. He turns it palm-side up and just…stares at it. There is an inner turmoil in Jongin that has slipped into this hand, then out again, completely bypassing Kyungsoo’s radar.  
  
“What’s up with you?” Kyungsoo tries to be calm. Low voice, lax lids. “What was that?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  _Now_  there’s something in Jongin’s eyes: a dull sort of terror, coming out of dormancy. “It just happened.”  
  
  
  
  
_If I were blind,_  
_I would touch you,_  
_interpret you,_  
_then commit you_  
_to memory,_  
_extrasensory,_  
_to last a century,_  
_as though I were reading Braille._  
  
_But you are blind,_  
_and I am mute,_  
_and there is no way to prevail._  
  
— “Braille,” Do Kyungsoo  
  
  
  
  
Joonmyun’s thirtieth birthday is held at a rooftop bar in a swanky hotel. Typical. Still, this surprises Kyungsoo because it’s an hour and half from the gated community where Joonmyun lives.  
  
“The view is worth it,” his editor says as soon as Kyungsoo arrives. The bar overlooks the brilliant, sequined skyline of downtown Seoul, and Joonmyun sweeps out both arms to show it off. “I’m pulling out all the stops for the big 3-0.”  
  
“It’s awesome, hyung.” Kyungsoo hands over his present (a bottle of Laphroaig). He gives Joonmyun a hug. “Happy birthday.”  
  
The party is already crawling with people.  _Joonmyun really does know everybody,_  Kyungsoo muses to himself as he takes stock of the crowd. There are chaebols here sitting with second-era K-pop idols; magazine editors and willowy models; a pair of Olympians; a popular television actress whom Kyungsoo thinks Joonmyun is dating. There’s also a throng of young, hip, beautiful people whom he doesn’t recognize but who look Very Influential. Kyungsoo smirks into his glass—just water at the moment—and feels Very Old.  
  
“Fancy meeting you here.”  
  
That’s Jongin’s velvet voice in the immediate vicinity.  
  
“Oh, hey!” Kyungsoo forgets, just this once, to modulate.  
  
He’s been telling Jongin  _no_ recently, every other time he texts to fuck, using the book as an excuse. But tonight, Kyungsoo can’t deny it—he is so pleased to see him.  
  
Jongin seems pleased, too, by this rare display of excitement. “Hey, you.”  
  
Kyungsoo’s sitting down, but his barstool is tall enough to come up to eye level. Jongin is smiling at him, smiling really hard.  _Too_  hard. It’s as if he’s trying to mask another emotion with the polished veneer of this one.  
  
The longer Kyungsoo looks, the more strain he sees in the nooks and crannies of Jongin’s face, stretching the skin. The usual canvas is open, inviting, natural. Nothing to hide.  
  
“Everything all right?” Kyungsoo keeps the question off-the-cuff. “You look…tired.”  
  
“I am,” Jongin says, with sandpaper in his voice. “If you—” He falters, just for a second. “If you kiss me, though, I’ll be back to a hundred.”  
  
Kyungsoo’s stomach does a little flip, like a dolphin in a pen. But he knows Jongin is deflecting, so he does, too. “Out here? There’s, like, eighty people around.”  
  
In the span of an audible exhale, Jongin’s expression shape-shifts thrice. First, he seems disappointed (but Kyungsoo chides himself not to project his own feelings). Then Jongin looks resolved, as though he’s made up his mind about something. By the time he inhales again, eyes lifting from the floor, his countenance has been completely overhauled. No tightness. Just temptation.  
  
“Come to the bathroom, then.” Jongin places his hand high on Kyungsoo’s thigh. “Unless, of course, you don’t want me right now.”  
  
Against his better judgment, and even though he knows Jongin is doing this to distract him, Kyungsoo quietly admits, “I want you.” The  _always_ goes unsaid. “Let’s go.”  
  
The men’s room is completely empty and thankfully clean. Jongin enters the last stall, with Kyungsoo following close behind. He bolts the door and leans again it, bracing himself for the assault of lips and fingers.  
  
It doesn’t come.  
  
Instead, Jongin approaches him gradually, until they are chest to chest. He cups Kyungsoo’s face with what feels like uncertainty, rolled into reverence, still taking his time. His thumbs skim over Kyungsoo’s cheekbones, and his lips stay at a comfortable distance.  
  
The disconcertment is real. “I thought you wanted to hook up?” Kyungsoo mumbles.  
  
An Adam’s apple bobs. “I just want you to kiss me.” Jongin’s request burns with insistence. “Kiss me until I can’t breathe. Can you do that?”  
  
Kyungsoo snakes a hand between Jongin’s wrists to cup his nape. “Yeah, I can do that.” This is uncharted territory they’re entering, but he doesn’t care anymore. He just wants to give in to Jongin, give him everything he asks for, even before he asks for it. “Come here.”  
  
The kiss is open-mouthed and luxuriously slow. Jongin lets Kyungsoo have total control, moving right when Kyungsoo veers left, switching to the left when Kyungsoo deepens the kiss on the right. The moment their tongues touch is electric,  _magnetic._ Jongin moans as Kyungsoo tastes the roof of his mouth, the backs of his teeth, his efforts hot and heavy.  
  
This is usually the time when they put their hands down each other’s pants—but since Jongin has placed this odd, almost obstinate distance between them, Kyungsoo channels all the love/lust he feels into his lips.  
  
He moves them away from the cubicle door, pushing Jongin against the adjacent wall. Jongin is sighing into his mouth, working his tongue over and under Kyungsoo’s, soft and slick as butter. His hands are still holding Kyungsoo’s face, refusing to budge. Kyungsoo’s hands, on the other hand, are spread out—one in Jongin’s hair, the other fisting his shirt. They’re kissing so hard, so fast, their lips never part for more than a second to let air slip through.  
  
All five of Kyungsoo’s senses are heightened. His lungs are about to combust. He has no idea what’s going on—but he likes it, and he kisses Jongin with more passion, because Jongin is clinging to him like he needs it.  
  
The jarring vibration of the phone in Jongin’s pocket is what finally breaks them apart. More specifically, Jongin takes his hands away from Kyungsoo’s cheeks, grasps his upper arms, and pushes him off firmly.  
  
Kyungsoo lets out half a groan (the other half echoes down Jongin’s throat). Jongin slumps against the wall, still clutching Kyungsoo’s arms. They’re both breathing hard, sweating inside their clothes, pink in the face, red in the mouth.  
  
The phone buzzes on and on and on and on and on.  
  
Kyungsoo speaks first. “Ignore it.”  
  
But Jongin has already reached for the device with his hand. The empty space it leaves on Kyungsoo’s left bicep is chilling. “Can’t.”  
  
Jongin picks up—and even before he speaks, Kyungsoo knows it’s Jung Soojung.  
  
  
  
  
She is downstairs, outside, not wearing enough layers for this breezy spring evening. Her figure is slight in a blue sundress and low heels—more fit for a day date than a nighttime fete. The hair that hung to her waist has been cut to her collarbones and dyed chestnut. She is just as beautiful as the first time Kyungsoo saw her.  
  
He is seeing her now, for a second time, because he followed Jongin to the lobby without Jongin’s knowledge. Because after Jongin left him in the men’s room, winded and flushed, Kyungsoo abandoned all pride and went straight after him. Because Kyungsoo has been left in the dark about where he stands with Jongin, especially in relation to Soojung, and he just  _needs to know._  
  
That’s how he finds himself behind a pillar at the back entrance of the hotel, with little more dignity than a stalker. He watches Jongin lead Soojung by the hand behind a parked hotel van, so they can have some privacy. He is only separated from them by a glass wall and this column of carved stone that obscures him.  
  
The déjà vu is as thick as smog. Jongin’s back is turned to Kyungsoo, and Kyungsoo only has access to Soojung’s face. She’s crying, looking up at Jongin with red-rimmed eyes as her mouth moves rapidly over words Kyungsoo can’t hear. Jongin rests his hands over her shoulders. Kyungsoo can only make out the curve of his neck when Jongin bends to tell her something. Something soft and honeyed, Kyungsoo imagines. Something full of solace.  
  
But whatever it is, it backfires. Soojung’s face looks as though Jongin had struck her. She recoils from his touch, shaking her head. When Jongin reaches for her, attempts to embrace her, she pummels his chest, an angry color saturating her face. The sound of her sobbing doesn’t penetrate the glass. But Kyungsoo can hear it in his head, anyway, from the way her shoulders shake and her lips twist; from the wounded look in her drowning pupils.  
  
Eventually, she succumbs to Jongin’s arms. She looks exhausted. The blows of her fists grow fainter and fainter, like a dying heartbeat, until they stop altogether. Jongin strokes her hair, her back, murmuring things into her ear that seem to take away her pain. He buries his face into her neck, and Kyungsoo watches them breathe together, in and out, in perfect unison.  
  
Soojung raises her head. Her face is splotchy and tear-stained, and hair is clinging to her forehead. But even like this, she is as lovely and as delicate as a dream.  
  
Jongin turns to her at almost the same time. His profile reveals a damp track that begins at his lash line and drops off at his jaw. He’s been crying, too.  
  
Their faces are so close, the tips of their noses touch. Soojung’s lips move a few more times. Kyungsoo wishes he was a fly on the wall outside this hotel, hearing everything Jongin hears. When Soojung smiles at him, somber and spent, Jongin doesn’t smile back.  
  
He does close the distance between them, kissing her on the mouth with the kind of painstaking, heartbreaking tenderness one reserves for the person they cannot lose.  
  
Kyungsoo turns away, tight in the chest and sick to his stomach.  
  
He’s sure of where he stands now.  
  
No promises. No strings attached.  
  
  
  
  
_I would have been happier_  
_if I had not met you_  
_that day._  
_If you had not plucked me_  
_from the crowd_  
_to say_  
_hello._  
_If I had been wise enough_  
_not to go_  
_when you asked me_  
_to come away._  
_I should have said_  
_no._  
  
— “Regret,” Do Kyungsoo  
  
  
  
  
Bright night, bathroom kiss, brown hair, blue dress, bow lips. It all comes rushing back to Kyungsoo as he and Jongin sidestep one another in the hotel room.  
  
Jongin said he wanted to talk, but he hasn’t uttered a word since they got back from dinner. He just lingers by the windows, looking out into the glimmer of the streets. Kyungsoo silently hangs up his jacket in the wardrobe and awaits the verdict.  
  
(There had been no drama when Jongin returned to the rooftop bar after his fight with Soojung. He’d approached Kyungsoo at the same spot by the bar, and they drank together for hours, talking of trivial things. Jongin did not offer an explanation for his hasty retreat. Not even a lie.  
  
Kyungsoo understood. He didn’t invite Jongin back to his place like he normally would. He also started screening Jongin’s calls and texts, until, in a matter of weeks, they dwindled down to nil. Jongin’s invite to the launch party for  _Certain Secret Things_  is still in Kyungsoo’s drafts folder, unsent.)  
  
“Do you see anybody else besides me?”  
  
Kyungsoo has settled at the foot of his bed. “Sorry?”  
  
Jongin is still by the windows, his hands shoved into his pockets. He’s turned his body towards Kyungsoo, and Kyungsoo can’t tell if the flickering in his face is a play of light or emotion.  
  
“Do you see anybody else,” Jongin repeats, “besides me?” His breathing and speech is forcibly even. His questions don’t even sound like questions. “Do you do what we do with anybody else?”  
  
“I told you already.” Kyungsoo searches Jongin’s eyes, confusion building brick by brick. “No.”  
  
“Then do you do other things with other people?” The words come out awkward and convoluted. Jongin shakes his head in frustration. “The things that we don’t do together—do you have other people to do them with?”  
  
“Jongin.” Kyungsoo can’t peel his eyes away from what’s in front of him. He won’t allow himself to acknowledge it— _he won’t—_ but this is textbook jealousy. “What are you asking me?”  
  
“Do you have a lover?” Jongin asks in a rush. “A real one. A serious one. Not like me.” He’s starting to stammer. “I don’t even know what you like…both, or…”  
  
Kyungsoo feels like he’s downed a stiff drink. All the blood in his body rushes to his head. A dry swallow singes his throat. The ground beneath him doesn’t seem as solid as it was a second ago. “No,” he answers. “None of the above.” He’s loose-lipped, too, from this imaginary liquor. “Only you.”  
  
Pacified. That is the accurate term for the expression on Jongin’s face, like a patient who’s just been informed he isn’t sick anymore.  
  
It only lasts a moment, because Kyungsoo isn’t done speaking. “Why are you asking me this?” He’s still light-headed, but the drunken feeling has given way to wariness. “You said this morning that you don’t mind me seeing other people.”  
  
Jongin pulls his hands out of his pockets. “Because I’ve never actually  _seen_  you with other people.” He rubs his face, making a sound of frustration. “I didn’t know how much I’d hate it.”  
  
A substantial part of Kyungsoo’s chest clenches. “Do you mean that guy at dinner?”  
  
Jongin nods slowly. “He was hitting on you all night.” His bottom lip retreats into his mouth and comes out rosy. “I hated it.”  
  
Kyungsoo should be elated. Jongin is jealous of a man who’d shown fleeting, insignificant interest in him. Jongin is asking if he has other partners, in a way that indicates Jongin wants him to say no. Jongin is acting, basically, like he and Kyungsoo go deeper than their casual bedfellowship.  
  
Like Jongin and Soojung.  
  
The mere thought of her pretty name, her pretty face, her pretty tears, and the pretty way her eyelids trembled when Jongin had kissed her— _that_ does away with any notion of real happiness.  
  
“You see two other people besides me on a regular basis. You have sex, and you have  _history_.” It’s the green-eyed monster speaking through him, accusatory. Kyungsoo tries to remind himself that he agreed to this,  _you agreed to this,_ but his mouth is moving a mile a minute. “Are you telling me not to flirt with strangers?”  
  
The relief that had been a salve over Jongin’s skin is wiped clean. “What?” That’s panic in his voice, and uninvited hurt. “Where did that come from? I’m trying to tell you that I—”  
  
“Is this how you are when Soojung spends too much time with Sehun?” Kyungsoo’s tone is flat and lifeless, like a night without wind. “Is this you marking your territory?” He wants it to hurt more, because he’s selfish and cruel. “I’m not like you, Jongin. I don’t grow a garden of lovers and pick whoever’s ripe. I just stick with  _one._ ”  
  
Jongin blows out his lips. “Kyungsoo.” He looks torn between taking a step forward and staying rooted in place. He also looks fed up. “If you let me finish, I’ll tell you  _exactly_  what I want to say.”  
  
Kyungsoo shuts his eyes. “I saw you with Soojung, you know.”  
  
The pause balloons between them, pregnant. “Excuse me?”  
  
_This is surrender_ , Kyungsoo thinks, eyes still closed. “I followed you at hyung’s birthday when she called for you.” The  _sorry_ is exhaled more than it is spoken. He’s not sure Jongin hears it. “I saw your fight. Saw you make up, too.” He opens his eyes. “What have you told her about me, Jongin?”  
  
What greets him is a halo of unexpected warmth, illuminating Jongin’s skin, his eyes, his parted mouth.  
  
“You’ve got it all wrong,” is Jongin’s answer. It is colored by the kind of brilliant resolution that can only come from truth. “This…this is why you’ve been picking fights with me all day.” He susses it out for himself, verbalizing facts instead of waiting for Kyungsoo’s feedback. “This is why you avoided me for four months.”  
  
He starts walking towards Kyungsoo, the glow from the buildings framing him like pixie lights. It’ll take him only five steps from the window to the bed, because the bed is halfway to the door. Kyungsoo remembers.  
  
He’s thrumming with adrenaline when he asks, yet again, “What have you told Soojung about me?” This conversation is on eternal loop; same questions, different answers.  
  
Five, four, three, two, déjà vu. Jongin is kneeling in front of him for the second time this evening. No shoehorn as a prop—just a man with honest eyes.  
  
“Jongin.” Kyungsoo is going to splinter into a thousand pieces. “What did you tell her?”  
  
“I told her I was in love with you.”  
  
All the oxygen whooshes out of Kyungsoo’s lungs, like those nine words have formed a vacuum, rendering him breathless.  
  
“I told her you were different from Sehun, because I could live without him. I told her you were different from her, because you would never have forgiven me.”  
  
There is a tremor in Kyungsoo’s mouth, and another in his heart.  
  
“I broke up with her, finally.” Jongin’s hands are balled into fists. “Right before hyung’s party.” The fists rest on his knees. “Ten years late.”  
  
“That’s why she was crying,” Kyungsoo whispers.  
  
The light in Jongin’s face dims, just by a degree. “She asked me to change my mind,” Jongin tells him, solemnly. “Said she didn't mind if I had you, same way she didn’t mind about Sehun. Not anymore, since she loved him, too.” Jongin’s lashes are wet. “But I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I came to you with all my baggage. So I said no.”  
  
“You can let go of her just like that?” Kyungsoo can hardly believe what is happening. It is thrilling and frightening and bewildering, all at once. “You can let go of  _them?_ ”  
  
“It took me three years, didn’t it?” Jongin drops his eyes to the carpet. “That’s how long we’ve been seeing each other, in case you forgot.”  
  
As if Kyungsoo would.  
  
“I keep track with my work.” The rollercoaster in his chest hurtles towards its final destination. “Three years, three books.” Game over. “The last two are about you.”  
  
A soft piece of hair falls over Jongin’s forehead when he looks up. His skin is so warm in this yellow light, and his gaze a caress, laden with expectation. “Do you have something to tell me?” The hollow at the base of his throat tells Kyungsoo he is holding his breath.  
  
Kyungsoo will not disappoint him. “I think I already loved with you,” he confesses, filled with longing, “when I let you read my stupid poems.”  
  
It only takes a beat. The tick of a clock hand. The echo of the traffic in the streets of Manila.  
  
Jongin reaches for him with strong hands at the same time Kyungsoo slides to the floor, shaking with emotion, and their lips reunite.  
  
  
  
  
_Hey Jongin,_  
  
_Hope Fashion Week (Month?) has been treating you well. This is the most number of shows you’ve ever walked in, isn’t it? They were talking about you the other day on Entertainment Relay. Shin Hyun Joon called you the national muse (it was a toss-up between that and the national clothes hanger, haha)._  
  
_Joonmyun-hyung says you’re in Manila for a show? I heard it’s been raining a lot over there. You must be happy. I remember you telling me once how much you love the rain, because it helps you sleep._  
  
_Anyway, I’ll be in town from the 16 th to the 19th for a book signing. My book came out a couple weeks ago, while you were in Paris for Valentino._  
  
_Would you happen to be busy on those dates?_  
  
_If you are, don’t worry about it. I know this is incredibly short notice. I’m not even sure you’ll see this email in time._  
  
_But good luck with your show, okay?_  
  
_And let me know, either way._  
  
  
  
_I miss you_  
  
_\- Soo_  
  
  
  
  
They kiss on their knees in front of each other, like two teenagers in a school play.  
  
They kiss as they abandon the plushness of the carpet; eyes closed, moving by muscle memory.  
  
They kiss while articles of clothing are removed, breaking only to slip a shirt over a head or push underwear down to ankles.  
  
They kiss their way into bed, holding fast to skin and muscle, salt and scent, as they tumble into the covers.  
  
Jongin mouths at the column of Kyungsoo’s neck, marking him up with reverence. He suckles on the Adam’s apple, and Kyungsoo sighs, enjoying the undivided attention. A moan escapes him, loud and clear, when Jongin moves down to his nipples. Jongin flicks them gingerly with his tongue, sucking them into rosy peaks as Kyungsoo loses his breath.  
  
Down and down and down this trail of kisses drops—and deeper and deeper and deeper into his lover’s skin do Kyungsoo’s fingernails sink.  
  
Jongin’s mouth is between his legs now. Kyungsoo bites down on his knuckles to keep from crying out, because it’s too much, just  _too much—_ the heaviness of his desire, the headiness of his devotion, swirling together like opium smoke. The way Jongin takes him all the way down into blessed wet heat, like that place has been prepared just for Kyungsoo. The way Jongin’s perfect palms press down on his hipbones to keep Kyungsoo right where he wants him, never apart from him. The way Jongin’s lashes flutter against his cheeks, effortless, when he surfaces from the depths, letting Kyungsoo go with a long, tight, tender suck.  
  
Kyungsoo removes one of the hands he’s buried in waxed hair to thumb the spit over Jongin’s lips. He knows there are traces of him there, too. Jongin is panting softly, smiling at him with those goddamn golden puppy eyes, like he’s waiting for Kyungsoo’s next command.  
  
The sense of possessiveness and pure, unadulterated affection that engulfs him is immediate.  
  
“Would you like to fuck me, Jongin?” Kyungsoo’s voice is hesitant, broken at the hinges, but his decision is final. He brushes a single finger over a proud, bronze cheekbone. “If you want to, I’ll let you.”  
  
Everything in Jongin’s face melts. Hard candy simmered into syrup. “Yes,” Jongin says, and his mouth is on Kyungsoo’s mouth, laced with love, and his hand is in Kyungsoo’s hand, with his heart. “I want to.”  
  
“You know that …” Kyungsoo clears his throat. He’s embarrassed, because what he’s about to say is the confession of a child. “You’re my first.”  
  
“I know.” Jongin presses their foreheads together, closing his eyes. It’s precious, somehow. “I’ll take care of you.”  
  
They don’t rush into it by any means. Instead, Jongin gets Kyungsoo ready with painstaking precision, taking his time, like he’s molding clay into sculpture. Fingers first (which makes Kyungsoo stiffen), then mouth (which makes Kyungsoo moan), then both (which makes Kyungsoo writhe).  
  
Eventually, when he’s teetering on the precipice of need, a pillow is placed under Kyungsoo’s head.  
  
Jongin gazes down at him. “You sure about this?” His mouth is a strawberry, glazed with fine sugar.  
  
Kyungsoo tastes the sweetness of it; delicate, like a butterfly alighting. “I’m sure,” he says softly. “You’ll take care of me.”  
  
He feels powerful and vulnerable in equal measure when his thighs are drawn all the way up to Jongin’s hips. Jongin drapes his body over them both, lean and lithe, resting his weight on his elbows.  
  
“I didn’t think it was possible,” he mumbles, “for you to fall in love with me.”  
  
“That’s funny.” Kyungsoo blossoms with adoration. “Neither did I.”  
  
He reaches between them to guide Jongin to his core; eager now, after all the ceremony. Jongin puts his trembling hand over Kyungsoo’s steady one, so they can do it together.  
  
He gets in one last line. “This isn’t just sex…” They’re right at the brink, but Jongin wants to be sure.  
  
“No, it isn’t,” Kyungsoo tells him—and finally, finally,  _finally,_ Jongin presses in, like he’s coming home. “Promise.”  
  
  
  
  
_So many hearts are broken_  
_whenever you take a lover._  
  
_How I’d love to be The Love,_  
_and you the only Taker._  
  
— “Lover,” Do Kyungsoo  
  
  
  
  
“How do you write a poem?” Jongin asks once, when Kyungsoo is in the middle of compiling his third book.  
  
Kyungsoo shoots him a look over the rims of his glasses. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Like,” Jongin flicks his cigarette into Kyungsoo’s only ashtray. “Do you start with a rhyme first?”  
  
They’re at the apartment in Namdaemun, out on Kyungsoo’s balcony. Jongin has taken to coming over any chance Kyungsoo gives him. Prefers it to hotels, he says. They mess around for a while; then they spend hours outside, sitting on Kyungsoo’s lawn chairs. Jongin smokes, Kyungsoo writes, and the two of them string together aimless conversations that last all night.  
  
“Ah.” Kyungsoo smiles at him. Jongin never pretends to know things he doesn’t—and he’s not afraid to ask simplistic questions. No pretenses. “It’s a little different from that. Sometimes I’ll see something that catches my attention—the way a girl’s hair blows into her eyes, or the shape of someone’s mouth—and I’ll want to record it. Or sometimes, I’ll hear a song I’ve never heard before and feel some sort of way, and I’ll jot down an idea—almost like a response.” Kyungsoo turns away, favoring his laptop. “Other times, I’ll remember someone I used to know. And I’ll write about them.”  
  
“Ah.” Jongin nods, taking it all in. “Like your ex.”  
  
(Kyungsoo doesn’t know why he told him about that. He shouldn’t have, really. But Jongin had asked, after finishing Kyungsoo’s first book. And surprisingly, Kyungsoo had answered.)  
  
“Right,” he says. “Like him.”  
  
The subject changes abruptly. “Write me a poem, then.”  
  
“What?” Kyungsoo cocks a brow, high into his hairline.  
  
“Write me a poem.” There’s that crooked grin. “Come on. It’ll be fun. I’ll even start you off with a rhyme.”  
  
Kyungsoo leans his cheek into his palm, patient and perplexed. “Were you not listening to a word I was saying?”  
  
“I always listen.” Jongin doesn’t skip a beat. “But this way will be more fun. Ready?”  
  
“Jongin—”  
  
“Here goes.” A cigarette stub is discarded. A throat is cleared of its cobwebs. “ _Midnight is the color black,_ ” Jongin recites, gesturing at the sky. “ _Look there—the moon’s a silver crack._ ” The nod that follows is full of spring. He’s so damn pleased with himself.  _“_ Continue.”  
  
Kyungsoo regards him for a muted moment. Jongin’s hair, dyed platinum a few months back for a Prada campaign, is starting to blacken at the roots. There’s something dancing in his eyes as he awaits a response. Below them, on the street, a couple of taxis zip by; the honk of one carrying through the air in a suspended note.  
  
“I’ll pass,” Kyungsoo quips, all casual, like he’s talking about a breadbasket.  
  
Jongin bursts into laughter. “Why?” he whines in faux defiance. “It’s awesome!”  
  
_It will be awesome,_ Kyungsoo thinks,  _when I finish it for you_.  
  
But all he lets on is a merry “I don’t want to pay you royalties” and a grouchy “You get paid enough by Armani, dammit,” to make Jongin laugh again.  
  
This skeleton of an idea—these bare bones of a pleasant surprise—Kyungsoo will keep to himself until the right time.  
  
  
  
  
_Midnight is the color black._  
_Look there—_  
_the moon’s a silver crack._  
_Your hair_  
_is lighter than the moon;_  
_you’ll have to paint it black at noon._  
  
_The air_  
_is spicy with the smoke_  
_you’ve snared_  
_between the lips you soak_  
_in cigarettes,_  
_in kisses wet,_  
_from afternoon ‘til midnight’s stroke._  
  
_How dare_  
_you look at me like that,_  
_perplexing as a Persian cat._  
_I bear_  
_the brunt of your night eyes,_  
_beneath these silver crescent skies._  
  
— “Midnight Is the Color Black,” Do Kyungsoo and A Friend  
  
  
  
  
The mediator at Kyungsoo’s book signing is a stickler for time. “Last question, please,” he tells the media at the pre-event. “Mr. Do needs to get to the meet and greet.”  
  
A young woman raises her hand. The mediator acknowledges her with a polite smile, nodding at Kyungsoo to prompt him.  
  
“Can I ask,” the woman begins, “about the last poem in  _Certain Secret Things?_ ”  
  
She is petite, with tawny skin and baby eyes hidden under thick glasses. Kyungsoo remembers her from earlier when Paolo, his butler, introduced her as his girlfriend.  
  
“Go ahead, Bea.” Kyungsoo takes a sip of bottled water. His voice is hoarse from two hours of talking about the book, and his tongue is twisted into knots from all the English. It’s going very well, though—just like Jongin said it would.  
  
“Thank you.” Bea adjusts her glasses, holding her recorder to her lips. “I’ve been following your work for years, since the Tumblr days, when people started translating your poetry. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think this is the first time you’ve ever co-written a poem, isn’t it?”  
  
“That’s correct.” Kyungsoo keeps his expression mild. Somewhere in the back, blending in with the lush interiors of the lobby café, is Jongin.  _His_ Jongin—exulting in triumph, for all Kyungsoo knows. “Sharp of you.”  
  
“I was wondering,” Bea says, “who that ‘friend’ is, and why you decided to write a poem with them.”  
  
Kyungsoo sees it in peripheral vision: Jongin is crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against a doorframe, settling himself in for the answer. Just for a second, Kyungsoo looks directly at him—and instead of the playful smirk he’d expected, he finds a pair of tender eyes. They ask him for nothing. They just tell him everything.  
  
“Well.” Kyungsoo forces himself to focus, even as his insides cave. “I can’t tell you who they are, unfortunately. That’s…” He smiles, giving himself away. “Private.”  
  
A teasing murmur ripples through the crowd. Bea coos along with them as a handful of photographers snap Kyungsoo’s photo.  
  
He must look completely lovestruck right now.  
  
“I  _can_ tell you,” Kyungsoo continues, “that they asked me to write a poem with them, not knowing I would write it  _about_ them.” At that, Jongin’s fingertips hover over his mouth. Kyungsoo can feel their indelible outline, as if those lips were his own. “I write everything about them. For them. To them. It’s all the same to me.”  
  
“That’s lovely,” Bea says, her recorder poised in his direction. She looks a little lovestruck, too. “Thank you for sharing that.”  
  
“Thank you for asking,” Kyungsoo returns blithely. From the back, Jongin blows him a kiss.  
  
  
  
  
The Manila people take Kyungsoo out to dinner again, away from the hotel this time, near the bay.  
  
He slips away with Jongin an hour earlier than he should, gently declining their offers to reschedule his red-eye. It’s sweet, but he just wants to be alone with this man before they return to the hustle and bustle of Seoul.  
  
They’re in one of the Spanish districts, charming with its cobblestone streets and old Catholic churches. The restaurant is along a very narrow street, and the hotel shuttle is waiting for them at the mouth of it, where they’d been dropped off earlier.  
  
“What do you want to do?” Jongin asks as they traverse the tiny sidewalk, keeping close together.  
  
“Nothing,” Kyungsoo replies. “Curl up in bed. Watch some TV.” He flashes his teeth. “Netflix and chill.”  
  
Jongin snickers like a grade-schooler. “Sounds like you’ve got this all planned out.”  
  
Kyungsoo can make out the shuttle from here, about thirty paces away. Their driver rolls down his window and waves at them, just to make sure they’ve seen him. They wave back, and he gets down from the car, crisp in his uniform, to hold the door open.  
  
“What do  _you_ want to do?” Kyungsoo asks Jongin.  
  
Ahead of them, Roxas Boulevard stretches out like a glittering ribbon. Red and yellow, white and blue; headlights and streetlamps in a motion blur. Buildings reflect, rainbow-like, in the water of the bay, and there’s so much possibility in this blessed city.  
  
“The night’s not over,” Kyungsoo pushes, when Jongin doesn’t immediately respond. “Forget what I said. We could still go out, somewhere around the hotel.” He pulls his hand out of his pocket and places it on the small of Jongin’s back. They’re ten paces away from the car. “Just tell me what you’re up for.”  
  
“Everything,” Jongin tells him. When the driver turns away to sneeze, a kiss sneaks itself onto Kyungsoo’s cheek. “With you.”  
  
Five paces. “Okay.” Kyungsoo keeps his hand where he’s left it. His heart, in contrast, is all over the place. “Where do you want to start?”  
  
Two paces. “From the top.” Jongin turns his way. Every inch of his beautiful face is aglow, like he’s generating his own light. “Let’s start from the beginning, Soo.”  
  
Kyungsoo’s hand finds Jongin’s fingers in the dark. They’re warm, and they fit, and he doesn’t care who sees.  
  
“All right, then,” he murmurs, right before they get into the car. “Let’s.”

**Author's Note:**

> All the poems are mine T_T If you hated them, I'm sorry! I'm don't know much about poetry and I don't even like it that much...I just thought the concept fit the story well. Go easy on me!


End file.
